


Swooosh!

by flawedamythyst



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-06
Updated: 2011-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-15 11:22:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John really likes Sherlock's coat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swooosh!

When John came downstairs on Christmas morning, Sherlock was bending over the fire, wearing his coat despite the cosy warmth that suffused the room.

“Merry Christmas,” he greeted him. “Are you off out somewhere?”

Sherlock spun around, revealing that the coat was all he was wearing. “Leaving the flat is the very last thing from my mind right now,” he said.

John stared. A man wearing nothing but an overcoat should have looked silly, perhaps even a bit flasher-in-a-plastic-mac-esque, but somehow Sherlock just looked hot. Amazingly hot. So hot that John could do nothing but stare for a few minutes, eyes tracing over the way that the lapels framed his collarbones and the places where the shadows fell over the rest of his body, allowing the barest glimpse of bare skin while tantalisingly hiding details. Sherlock stood still and allowed him to just look, apparently content to be ogled.

“What...” managed John eventually. “Sherlock, why on earth are you dressed like that?”

“It's come to my attention,” said Sherlock, putting his hands in his pockets, which changed the angle of the coat's shadows and threatened to distract John from what he was saying, “that you have certain desires regarding this coat.”

Damn, he'd noticed. Well, mainly – the desires were more aimed at Sherlock than the coat, but it was hard to deny that they tended to increase in the presence of the coat. Especially when he turned quickly enough to make it swirl around him, or pulled the collar up to protect his neck from the cold, or brushed close enough to John for him to be able to feel the rough wool against his skin. Well, okay, maybe it was the coat as well.

“And it's Christmas,” added Sherlock. “Presents aren't really my area, but I thought this might do instead. If the direction of your gaze is any indication, it seems I was correct.”

John tore his gaze away from the way the coat flared out below Sherlock's waist and refocussed it on his face. “Sorry,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “I'm not sure I understand.”

Sherlock let out a long sigh. “What's to understand?” he asked impatiently. “Use the evidence in front of you.” He gestured at his naked body.

John found himself distracted again as the gesture pulled the coat away enough to leave nothing hidden away. Sherlock's skin was pale, and everything about him was long and thin, although not as thin as John sometimes worried he might be. The contrast between his skin colour and the black of the coat made John want to lick over it, marking out the lines of his rib cage and the soft flesh of his belly.

“As flattering as your distraction is, I would appreciate some response,” said Sherlock.

“What?” managed John, not looking away from all the places he wanted to put his mouth.

Sherlock pulled the lapels of his coat shut, dislodging John's train of thought. “Clearly I'm expecting too much from your brain right now,” he said. “Let's try this instead – John, take your clothes off.”

The note of command in his voice was enough to make John reach automatically for his shirt buttons. He froze his fingers before they could start undoing them, though. “Wait,” he said, trying to regain some control over the situation. “We're going to-”

“Take your clothes off,” Sherlock repeated, cutting him off. “It's very simple, John. Do as I say, and whatever it was you were thinking about just then has a very high chance of becoming reality.”

John had three buttons undone before he'd even managed to take a breath. Sherlock gave him a pleased smile. “Excellent,” he said.

There was something thrilling about stripping off in front of Sherlock's intense gaze that somehow completely negated the awkward self-consciousness that John would normally feel. He took his clothes off as quickly as possible, casting them to one side, and then stood still, waiting for whatever was coming next.

Sherlock stepped forward, the coat flowing out behind him, and carefully looked John over. He reached out one hand to trace over the scar on John's shoulder and John shivered. He was already embarrassingly hard, and they hadn't even done anything yet.

Sherlock pulled his coat sleeve up around his hand and brushed the material down over John's chest, the rough wool rubbing over a nipple and making him suck in a breath. John could tell that Sherlock was noting every tiny reaction he made, his eyes as bright and intent as if he were on a case.

“So responsive,” he said under his breath. “What about if I-” That was all the warning John got before Sherlock backed him up against the wall, covering his body with his own, coat-clad one and kissing him with all the single-minded purpose of a man who knows exactly what he wants and intends to get it at any cost.

John let out a groan as the coat rubbed against his cock, automatically spreading his legs so that Sherlock could slide one leg between them and giving his mouth up to Sherlock's exploration. He couldn't seem to believe that this was actually happening, even with the undeniable proof of Sherlock's body pressed tightly against his, the wall cold against his back and the coat touching him everywhere, surrounding him. He put his hands out almost blindly, trying to find something to hold on to before the sensations buckled his knees, and caught hold of the collar, gripping tightly and pulling Sherlock even closer to him.

“John,” said Sherlock against his mouth in a low, deep voice that sent ripples of lust through John's body. “What were you thinking about earlier?”

John opened his eyes and the look on Sherlock's face was as if he could read everything that John had ever even half-considered when he'd allowed his mind to stray down this path. “Tasting you,” he said, his fingers clutching tighter at the coat's collar and pulling it up to frame Sherlock's face.

Sherlock pulled in a quick breath, then nodded. “Yes,” he agreed with almost a hiss. “Yes, do that.” He pulled back slightly, pushing on John's shoulders and John fell to his knees without needing further encouragement.

Sherlock pulled the coat out of the way and John could ran his hands over his stomach, then clung on to his hips as he let his mouth follow the same path, pressing his face as close to Sherlock's skin as he could until he felt like he was drowning in the scent of him. Sherlock pulled the coat back around him, enclosing him in its folds so that he was shut away in the dark with nothing but the feel of wool on his back and Sherlock in front of him. Sherlock's cock was right there, hard and nudging against John, but he ignored it in favour of biting at the sharp lines of Sherlock's hips and licking down along the inside of his thigh.

“Stop teasing,” growled Sherlock somewhere outside the coat. John had to pause for a moment and shut his eyes against the shudder of arousal that thrummed through him before he did as commanded and took Sherlock's cock in his mouth, running his hands around to his arse so that he could pull him even closer.

“Fuck,” said Sherlock in a strained, bitten off voice. “John, yes.”

It was as good as hearing any other man lose it completely, knowing that he'd managed to pull those words from Sherlock despite his formidable self-control, and John couldn't stop himself smiling around Sherlock's cock, pulling back to run his tongue up the underside of it and lingering under the crown.

It was finally beginning to feel as if this was actually happening – it wasn't just a dream, Sherlock was actually there under his mouth, his muscles twitching as he braced himself on the wall. The coat swaying around them both, trapping John right where he wanted to be. _Best Christmas ever_ , he thought with satisfaction.

“John,” said Sherlock in a strained voice. “I should warn you that if you allow any stains on this coat, I shall make you explain them to the dry-cleaners.”

If he was still able to form a sentence that coherent, John wasn't doing this properly. He renewed his efforts, sucking harder and bringing one hand back around to squeeze gently at Sherlock's balls.

“Jesus Christ,” managed Sherlock and came with all the sudden force of a sledgehammer, his muscles standing rigid under John's hands. John struggled to swallow it all down, mindful of Sherlock's warning – he had to take things that had ended up covered in blood or worse into that dry-cleaners far too often to risk the kind of smirking looks that a semen-covered coat would prompt.

“John,” gasped Sherlock once he was done, then pulled John up with forceful hands and pressed him back against the wall, kissing him so thoroughly that for a moment he wasn't able to breath.

“Perfect,” said Sherlock against his mouth and his hands began to sweep down over John's skin, apparently determined to trace over every inch, marking out the places that made John tense or gasp. Sherlock was still wearing the coat, but it was pulled back so that it was his naked flesh rather than rough wool that was pressed against John.

“How do you always manage to confound my expectations like this?” he muttered, then went back to kissing John without waiting for an answer, one hand stroking down to find John's erection and taking a firm grasp that made John buck his hips up and let out a groan.

“Come on, come on,” said Sherlock, his hand moving in a fast, hard rhythm that had John on the edge of orgasm in almost no time at all. “Let me see you.”

It felt like John had been hard for hours, every touch and taste of Sherlock driving him higher, and now that Sherlock's hand was finally on him he could barely hold on for the time it took Sherlock to give up on trying to kiss his distracted mouth and bend his head to bite at John's neck instead.

“Perfect,” he growled again, the movement of his mouth vibrating against John's skin, and that was all it took to push him over the edge.

“Sherlock,” he gasped helplessly as he came, clutching at the sleeves of the coat and wishing it was out of the way so that he could feel Sherlock's skin in his grasp instead. No matter how much he loved the coat, after all, it was nothing next to Sherlock himself.

“Yes,” hissed Sherlock, his eyes bright as he took in every part of John's orgasm, darting between his face and his cock as if desperate to catch every detail. “That's it, John.”

John slumped back against the wall feeling wrung out, incapable of doing more than blink at Sherlock, who didn't seem to need a moment to catch his breath at all. He stepped back so that he could take off the coat, carefully checking the material for stains before he looked back up at John.

“You're safe from the mockery of the dry-cleaner,” he said, then appeared to take in John's exhausted posture. John felt a smile spread over his face without any prompting from him – no doubt a completely content and slightly befuddled one. His knees were threatening to drop him to the floor at any minute and he was starting to notice the chill of the room on his skin despite the fire, but right now he couldn't care about any of it. He felt amazing. And completely done in – the floor was beginning to look increasingly tempting.

Sherlock glanced between John and the sofa, only four paces away but as impossible to get to for John right then as Australia. He dropped the coat on the back of the sofa, then pulled John back into his arms, pulling him forward to lean on his chest. “Collapse on the sofa, not on the floor,” he advised and half-helped, half-carried John over to it.

Once there, he collapsed down onto the sofa with John, pulling him close to his chest. John happily let himself settle, tucking his head into the crook of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock pulled the coat down over them both and they lay there in silence for a few minutes while John fought to recover himself from the post-orgasm white-out.

When his mind did begin to come back, it brought nothing but doubts and confusion. What the hell was going on? What did this mean? Sherlock had implied that this was some kind of Christmas present – did that mean it was a one-time-only deal, or was this just the start of a whole new facet to their relationship? If it had just been a one-off, what on earth did this cuddling mean?

He tried his best not to let his increasing turmoil show but he must have given some hint because Sherlock let out a long sigh.

“It's hard to relax when your brain is so noisy,” he complained.

“Right,” said John. “Sorry.” He tried to push all the thoughts away, focussing on the now of having Sherlock pressed up close against him instead. It seemed unlikely that Sherlock would have the patience to stay like that for long, after all.

Sherlock made an amused noise and ran a hand up John's back to stroke through John's hair. “Merry Christmas, John,” he said.

“Merry Christmas,” responded John almost automatically, then hesitated before adding, “This...it's just Christmas?” He felt like an idiot just for asking the question, but he knew he wouldn't be able to relax properly without an answer and, well, it wasn't as if Sherlock didn't already think he was an idiot.

Sherlock shifted slightly underneath him. “The coat was just for Christmas,” he said carefully. “Do you know how expensive it is to dry-clean?”

“Ah,” said John, forcing his fingers to relax their grip on Sherlock's chest slightly in an effort to hide his disappointment.

“This, though,” continued Sherlock, “and the rest of it – I'm hoping it will continue well into the New Year. If you want.”

He sounded less than sure of himself for the first time since John had met him. “I'd- Yes,” said John. “That would be good.”

Sherlock's arm tightened around him for a moment. “Good,” he repeated, and they lay in silence for a few long minutes. John was close to sinking into a contented doze when Sherlock cleared his throat. “I should probably warn you that Mrs. Hudson said she'd be up at around eleven to give us presents before she left for her sister's.”

“What time is it?” asked John.

Sherlock's head moved just enough to glance at the clock. “Quarter past eleven,” he said.

“What?” said John, sitting up and dislodging the coat. “Sherlock!”

There was a knock on the door. “Coo-ee, only me!”

John leapt up and glared at Sherlock. “You bastard,” he hissed. Sherlock just grinned at him, apparently completely relaxed as their landlady started to open the door. John let out an aggravated noise and fled for his room.


End file.
